


fatigue.

by xxELF21xx



Series: sides [1]
Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Red & Green & Blue & Yellow | Pokemon Red Green Blue Yellow Versions
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Possession, Sleep Deprivation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, gold is an absolute angel and u cant change my mind, my tagging is getting worse as time goes on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:00:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26359870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxELF21xx/pseuds/xxELF21xx
Summary: Sleep is a lover, lost.
Relationships: Ookido Green | Blue Oak & Red, Ookido Green | Blue Oak/Red
Series: sides [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927696
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	fatigue.

**Author's Note:**

> i've had a pretty rough(???) few weeks, was really planning on doing notes on this au but stuff happened. i might add a link to the notes in the future.

Sleep is a lover, lost.

It's always lingering at the edges of his skin, tingling pleasantly in the warm afternoon sun or the freezing winter harsh. Yet it never draws closer, never steps away from the frays. If he so much as took a step closer, it disappears, never to appear until it's deemed it time. 

Sleep is a lover, lost.

For as long as he can remember, sleep never came easy. Pleas, prayers, cries and medication; none of them worked. You could see it in the unhealthy sheen of his skin, the droop of his eyelids, the irritation bleeding his tone. 

His quiet mutterings drove everyone away; ‘the boy with a god in his eyes and a world on his back,’ people would say. In the dead of night, whilst Pallet was alseep, he would be in his bed, slim fingers weaved together, lips moving steadfastly until dawn broke. 

Sleep is a lover, lost.

Sooner or later, he succumbs to darkness, pulled into a world of fitful nightmares and tossed around with horrid visions of the future. When his eyes startle open, a sick green that tells twisted tales, it makes him no better.

Sleep is a lover, lost.

There is a boy who moves in next door, from far enough that he doesn’t know about Pallet’s cursed little charm, and he looks familiar; from the wisps of his rosy red cheeks to his quiet yet brave actions. He is a force to be reckoned with, one who appears in his nightmares and kisses him goodnight. The ever blank, calm expression on his face inviting, open, free of judgement.

Every part of him screams for him to run, run, run away; but for the first time in his life, there is someone who doesn’t  _ know  _ him. 

It is enough temptation to stay.

Sleep is a lover, losing. 

From then on, they’ve stuck together, thick as thieves. It takes very little to please his new friend (they  _ are  _ friends, proclaimed Red, who rarely shows emotion but had looked rather angry and upset as his lips twitch from holding back tears), he’s generally agreeable and has no strong opinions on anything. 

Being with Red felt calming. His mind slows to a halt of nothingness when they are together, and he forgets about the grieved moans, the anger surging through his veins, the cold snap of things that weren’t meant to exist in this world. He no longer hears the whispers in his ears. 

He sleeps, for the first time in a long while, blissfully unaware of anything until he rouses naturally. He looks better, healthier. He feels better, too.

Sleep is a lover, lost.

But just as quickly as he gains the ability to sleep, it’s brutally torn away from him as a Pokedex is thrusted into his unwilling hands, and a pokeball containing his second choice. Fate is cruel, it seems, as Red’s passiveness takes a shine and he sets off without looking back. He is left in the dust, trembling and unstable once again.

His grandfather sits him down, soothes his back and waits for him to calm, to still. But he doesn’t. The whisperings, once soft as a light breeze, crashes down on him and unfurls a fear and anger that resonates deep in his bones. 

_ Beware, beware!  _ In tongues, he repeats the words,  _ someone has stolen us, our lives, our tails! Our tails!  _ His fingers weave, posture leaning forward as he prays,  _ help us. Help, help.  _

Once again, Pallet is vividly reminded of their cursed little charm, chanting in his cursed little ways.

He cries.

Fatigue comes easy. 

Training is easy, it comes naturally to him, lips pulling thoughts out of the air as he commands his team. Nothing makes quite as much sense in his head, overwhelmed by the pain and anguish, but the longer he spends training (improving his team, being better than Red, lying until he’s numb to everything) the lesser time he has to focus on anything else. 

And as the tension seeps out of him, now a husk emptied, he rests on the shell of Blastoise, eyes slipping shut in the pretence of rest as his mind drums on and on. But he can’t concentrate, prayers forgotten as his body protests with every minor shift and his throat parched. 

This is fine. 

Fatigue comes easy.

Getting to Lance is not. 

It takes him three tries, three times the horrified stares and pitiful looks, until he all but falls into Lance’s arena. 

The dragon master rushes over, haughtiness traded for concern and slight panic (because what will happen to him, when a challenger falls in his hall, when Professor Oak’s cherished grandson lies in a bed smelling like antiseptic?) as he tries to dissuade him from completing the Challenge. 

Regardless, he grits his teeth and rises, thankful to have returned Eevee into her ball so she won’t witness his weakness again. ‘I’m fine,’ he bites his tongue before he can say anything else, he  _ won’t  _ slip. He has to prove that he’s more than a cursed small-town boy (does he really, though? When nobody really cared), prove that he’s  _ better  _ than Red (and why should he? They are equals). 

By some miracle (he knows it’s the god resting in his soul, the one that torments him in every second of his life), he wins. He gets crowned. 

But he isn’t tired enough. 

His mind is still plagued, his hands clasped tightly in his lap, fervent prayers slipping through his mask every so often. He needs to collapse, to be utterly free of his misery. 

If the Elite Four saw his desperation, they don’t say anything. They leave him sitting atop a cold throne in an icy room.

He doesn’t think he can show any more emotion on his face when Red stands before him, disbelief and anger scratching his skin raw. His mind stills again, and he knows (he always knew) who those above favoured. 

It’s a carefully crafted act, a theatrical performance, a worthy ball, as he commands his team (he knows it’s for the last time, he can  _ feel  _ it). There is nothing to stop him, no cries for help, no intrusive thoughts, and he’s able to finally feel the full power of his team as they battle. It is a wondrous dance, skilful and deadly.

And, of course, he knows that Eevee will fall. He’s seen this scene play out all his life, he knows Eevee will bear her fangs, more feral than any other of her kind, as she bows out. He knows the loss written in the way she crouches, acting as if she had any bit of fight left in her as her ears droop. 

He feels nothing, withdrawing Eevee and plastering on a grimace. 

He is satisfied. 

Grandfather swoops in, congratulating Red and leading him into the Hall of Champions. But before that, he soothes his back once more, worry colouring his tone as he begs his boy to rest. 

He collapses onto the cold marble tiles, knocked out cold.

Sleep is still a lover, lost. 

When he rises, his lips are still moving, stuck on cries and anger and frustration-- his head hurts. 

Red is gone. Mount Silver, his grandfather confides, a hushed secret. For training. 

_ Lies,  _ an anger radiates from his core, scathing and screaming. It doesn’t belong to him (emotions rarely do), but it causes Daisy to jump all the same. ‘He can’t be gone!’ There is a need he didn’t think he could produce with his limited vocal range, climbing higher and higher until he falls mute again. 

Daisy hugs him tight, holds him still as a legend older than time roars its fury at the betrayal. It threatens to take over him completely, eating his soul until nothing but crumbs remain, but he reins it in, fear of what may happen to his sister stronger than any deity. 

_ His job is not finished! He cannot leave!  _ **_Find him._ **

But he’s not strong enough, body weak to the elements. And he knows that it will not let its vessel be caught in harm’s way. 

He doesn’t anticipate it to choose someone else, crown another innocent, and send him to finish what Red could not. 

While fatigue comes easy, with the Gym piling high on him and his chances of escaping into Viridian Forest with fervent cries tingling on his lips lesser, a challenger approaches. Lance has told him of this boy’s involvement with the unsavoury delinquents of Rocket, but he doesn’t expect it to be a scrappy lad from New Bark (he thinks of falling leaves, and knows that those memories are not his). 

There is a glow to him, a fire, that Red does not possess. He is loud, rambunctious, forceful. Not one to admit defeat, they clash frequently, Gold taking on his monstrous team (they no longer resemble regular pokemon, they have an otherworldly energy around them that people  _ fear)  _ more times than anyone thought possible. 

Sabrina thinks that it’s foolish, because one cannot  _ brute force  _ god’s favourite. He begs to differ, no god would favour him. 

‘Go up to Mount Silver, once you defeat the Elite Four. Climb to its tallest peaks, past Articuno’s feathers, and challenge the one that sits on top of the world.’ Those are not his words, but Gold is not Red; Gold can’t tell the difference. 

Green is scared that he’s sent another one to his death. 

Gold returns, with Red in tow. 

His smile is infectious, warm and liquid sunshine, melting his fears so fast he scrambles out of his seat and crashes into the boy, tears and apologies escaping him in a mess (and they are  _ his. His  _ emotions). He doesn’t look at Red, and the one residing in him refuses to acknowledge the Champion as well. 

Gold, bless his heart, does not seem to understand the fuss. The mountains are cold, he says, but the trek up was fun; as if he hadn’t been sent to his death, as if saving the region and its pokemon was something everyone did for fun. But, knowing the boy, he probably did it just because. 

Arceus above, you have chosen a mighty one, haven’t you? 

Rumbles ring in his head, proud. Why is it proud? 

‘Mr Red is so cool! His pikachu didn’t look all that bothered when-- ‘ He tunes out the tale of battle, focus shifting to Red, who looked laughably out of place, clothes bled out and gaze running about the interior of Viridian Gym’s office. 

The office has changed. Gone were the ugly blacks and reds, the room now awash in cozy swathes of green and bronze -- Viridian Forest, he had argued, would come to  _ him  _ if he could not go; and Lance had agreed, because who was he to argue with such flawless logic (anything to make Green stay in his Gym,  _ anything).  _

He wonders what Red is thinking, but is pulled back into a conversation he wasn’t quite paying attention to. ‘Do you think you can win against Mr Red this time?’ A simple question, one everyone knew the answer to; he could probably win. 

No, he thinks, I’m not that strong. 

‘Yes,’ he says, mind not his own, ‘let’s see what Red is made of.’ 

Red startles, noticing the subtle shift. But Gold does not. 

Green wins. 

(And, after that, his mind  _ stops.  _

There are no more shudders, no more cries, no more prayers, no more medication, no more stars-moon-dawn-dusk. 

There is  _ nothing. _ )

Sleep is a lover, returned. 

It comes in the form of late night kisses, bundled up in piles of throw cushions and a blanket that is somehow too big yet too small, mumbles of incoherent complaints and shoulders aching from lifting boxes into their loft. It is leaning against Red, who has gotten considerably bulkier since he returned from his caveman lifestyle, and leeching whatever warmth the man possesses, listening to him shuffle through his endless supply of trading cards he swindled from a five-year-old. 

Sleep is being completely at peace with the voices in his mind, sometimes screaming, oftentimes whispering, prophecies engraved into his eyelids. It is accepting that he is, perhaps, cursed and being completely alright with it. Maybe using it to spook a few people, gain new friends. It is never going near Lavender Town, but appreciating the monuments and memories. 

Sleep is dozing off, blissful silence and emptiness that makes him feel whole.

(Sleep comes easily, fatigue does not.)

**Author's Note:**

> TLDR: arceus is possessing green, takes over his every action, red says fuck you, disappears, gold brings red back, reguri in alola.  
> alternatively, 6 pages of a very holey au.


End file.
